I am haunted by a world
That is both past and future and the present
Is a tunnel through which it flows
Where horses are heraldic
White icons on the darkening field
Where the wind blows through my bones like flutes
Hollow low
Plays my skeleton on its own frequencies
Where the dark
Descends low clouds of black TV static
Loosening my joints and tendons
Where puddles reflect
The trees up in their own world
Their dark sinuous limbs like tentacles
Of diluvian monsters or the undulant
Tapered fingers of a terrible
Ancient goddess whose word
Will bring down darkness who
Will wield the moon’s bright sickle
To circumcise this sickly child
The whites of whose wild eyes are
Mother-of-pearl
Where a dark-purple flower
Will unfurl
Bury this seed in the ancient soil
See what black-feathered
Wings will grow
Taliesin Gore is a young writer who lives in a shed in Dorset, England. Since a nervous breakdown in his late teens first brought him into close contact with it, he has had a close relationship with the Void, which, alongside its polar opposite, the World Soul has provided him with a wealth of creative inspiration. His fiction has been published at Horla, his poetry in Dream Catcher and The Dawntreader, and one of his essays in The Powys Journal. He has an MA in English Literary Studies from the University of Exeter, and is an academic editor by trade.
Published 10/28/21
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